The Taming of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  He swallowed visibly. “Kate.”

  “Such a conundrum.” She began tugging at his shirt, drawing the fabric loose from his breeches. “You know, there is only one man who makes me feel safe whenever I am with him. So, perhaps I should simply follow you about.”

  “I dinnae think that’s a good idea.”

  She tugged off her gloves, tossed them on the desk behind him, dug beneath the hem of his shirt, and ran her fingers over his hard, ridged, naked belly. “No?”

  A jolt and a groan.

  “I suppose one of your brothers would do.”

  “Nae Rannoch,” he barked.

  She raised a brow. “I fail to see why. He seems quite capable. And we do get along rather—”

  “Nae Rannoch,” he repeated in a deep rumble. His hands, meanwhile, fell to her backside and drew her hips hard against him, lifting her onto her toes.

  “Campbell, then,” she panted. “Is he about? Alexander is also an option, though I must tell you, I find him most intimid—”

  “Ye’ll accompany me,” he gritted. “When I cannae be there, ye’ll wait for me. If I’m away longer than a day, ye’ll rely upon yer brother’s protection.”

  She opened her mouth to agree, but he swooped in to kiss her so hard and thoroughly, she lost track of the conversation. And just when she’d made frantic progress on unbuttoning his fall, she found herself abruptly thrust away from him and held at arm’s length.

  “Not until ye’ve recovered,” he said. “Wicked temptress.”

  “Me?” She tingled everywhere he’d touched her—lips, hips, bosom, backside. And she was the wicked one?

  He remained resolute, however, and after buttons were fastened and gloves donned, he took her outside to one of the distillery wagons. Broderick called orders to several men to load it with loose straw and ready it for transport. As two of his men hitched the horses, a third retrieved blankets from the stable. Broderick spread one over the straw. Then, he lifted her high in his arms with no more effort than he might lift her smallest trunk. Gently, he lowered her onto the soft nest.

  “I’m takin’ ye home, lass.”

  Breathless and more than a little enchanted, she found herself unable to do more than nod.

  “Are ye warm enough?” He took an additional blanket one of his men handed him and spread it over her lap with deft flicks. Then, he stroked a knuckle down her cheek. “Are ye comfortable?”

  Her throat tightened as she gazed up at him. His dark hair ruffled lightly in the chilly breeze. His dark eye roved over her with a hint of concern. She nodded again.

  He gave her a final, lingering caress then climbed onto the wagon’s bench and took the reins. “My thanks, lads,” he called to his men. “Tell Rannoch to be here early tomorrow. We’ll speak then.”

  The wagon jerked into motion.

  But Kate scarcely felt it. She scarcely smelled the peat-smoke air, the damp earth. She scarcely heard the nicker of the horses.

  Because inside she’d halted like an unwound clock.

  While she hadn’t been looking, while she’d been merrily contemplating carpets for the dining room and pillows for the parlor, the worst possible thing had happened.

  An illness.

  A disaster.

  A calamity few recognized and fewer conquered.

  The mind infection had struck. But this time, Kate was the poor ninny in its grasp.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Four days after Kate came to see him at the distillery, Broderick’s urgency overcame his better judgment.

  This could not go on. He could not leave for Edinburgh while his wife hated him.

  He sucked in frost and breathed out clouds as he pulled his horse to a halt in front of his father’s house. The old stone farmhouse had been his home, but right now, it harbored the woman who had defied his express orders to visit Angus for “tea.”

  She’d barely spoken to him—barely looked at him—since he’d lifted her out of the wagon. She’d taken supper that night in her bedchamber. He’d listened to her pacing until well past midnight. When he’d returned from the distillery the following day, Mrs. Grant had informed him Kate had spent the day writing. He’d assumed she’d been inspired and wanted solitude. But the following morning, she hadn’t appeared at breakfast.

  Then, she’d avoided him, her eyes skating away when he found her reading in the library. He’d asked if she wanted to visit the castle or ride into the village. With a faint crinkle of her nose, she’d glanced out the window. “Not today, I think,” she’d murmured, gathering her shawl tighter. “Too much rain.”

  This morning, she’d ridden to MacPherson House without telling him; instead, he’d had to hear from Mrs. Grant that Kate had wanted to take tea with his da.

  That was why he’d come. Because her withdrawal could not be borne. Yes, he’d behaved like a woman-starved, half-sotted brute. Yes, she’d claimed she wasn’t vexed with him—obviously a lie. Nothing else explained her behavior.

  Perhaps it would be better for her if she hated him before he left. If he never returned, she wouldn’t mourn. She’d be free.

  But the howling ache in his chest wouldn’t go away. He couldn’t stand her silence, her distance, the shadowy smudges beneath her velvety eyes. So, she must forgive him for handling her roughly. She must return to being the sweet, glowing Kate she’d been before.

  It would hurt to leave her. More than he’d anticipated. More than it should. But he couldn’t leave without seeing her smile one more time.

  He handed his horse to one of the stable lads and entered his father’s house. Warmth and the scents of wool, bread, and wood surrounded him. The smell was his childhood. He breathed deep, remembering.

  “Well, now, isnae this a grand surprise.” Annie emerged from the shadows beyond the staircase—the direction of the kitchen. She was grinning and wiping her hands on her apron. “Angus said ye’d come. I wasnae so certain.”

  Broderick frowned, shrugging out of his coat and placing his hat on the hook by the door. “Why would he say that?”

  “’Tis Sunday.”

  He blinked. It was?

  Annie arched a brow and planted her hands on her hips. “Venison and gravy? All the MacPhersons come round to eat my food and drink yer whisky?”

  “Aye. Sunday. Truthfully, that wasnae why I came, though it does smell delicious, sister.”

  “Come. Dinnae stand there puddlin’ Mrs. Urquhart’s clean floors. The woman is a saint to put up with the auld man’s crabbit ways, but even saints have their limits.” Mrs. Urquhart was Angus’s newly hired housekeeper and cook.

  “I must speak with Kate,” he said, wiping his boots on the rug. “Where is she?”

  Annie crossed her arms. “Last I saw, she was interviewin’ Da again. ’Tis the most confoundin’ thing. He hasnae bellowed once. I think he likes yer lass.”

  “Wife.” He muttered the correction before he could think better of it.

  Red brows arched as bright blue eyes rounded and blinked. She drifted closer until he could smell the scent of the dough she’d been kneading. Her expression eased into tenderness as she searched his face. “Aye. She’s yer wife.”

  Something twisted around his guts and squeezed. “Where is Rannoch?”

  “He’s runnin’ late. Hasnae arrived yet.”

  “So, he hasnae been with Kate?”

  “Nah. She rode here with me and John, and she’s been talkin’ to Da ever since.” Her head tilted. “Broderick MacPherson,” she breathed. “Tell me I’m nae seein’ what I’m seein’.”

  “Can ye bluidy well answer the question, Annie? I didnae come here for—”

  “Ye’re jealous.”

  He snorted. “Rubbish.”

  “Aye. Possessive, too.” She chuckled and shook her head. “It’s like watchin’ a unicorn dance a reel with an elephant durin’ an eclipse, and I would have wagered every copper pot in my kitchen that it was impossible, but … there
it is, plain as boiled tatties.”

  He ground his teeth. “Just tell me where Kate is.”

  “She’s in the parlor with Da.”

  He strode to the doors on his left and thrust them open. Angus and Kate sat beside each other on one of the sofas. She was holding her teacup to her lips with a wry smile. He was holding up her sketchbook to the gray light from the window and pointing to a scribble that vaguely resembled Campbell’s hound.

  “There are nae wolves in Scotland, lass.” The old man tapped the scribble with a gnarled forefinger. “Doesnae matter where ye position him. Nae wolves. Nae fight. Nae legend.” He glanced at Broderick. “Right, laddie?”

  Broderick barely heard him. His heart pounded as she finally noticed her husband standing in the doorway. Her slim shoulders tensed. Gracefully, she lowered her cup to her lap. Her lashes fanned along her pale cheeks.

  “Da, I’d like to speak to my wife.”

  Angus closed the cover on the sketchbook and got to his feet. He crossed his arms. “Then, speak.”

  “Alone, if ye please.”

  “I think I’ll stay.”

  Broderick approached to stare his father straight in the eye. “Alone,” he repeated quietly. “If ye please.”

  Angus’s scowl deepened. “Watch yer step, son. A maddened bull full of piss thinks to challenge when he should be mindin’ his manners. Never ends well.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Ye’re nae fine.”

  “Angus?” Kate said softly. She touched the old man’s wrist then squeezed his gnarled fingers. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

  Angus grunted, shot Broderick a hard stare, and gave him an even harder clap on the shoulder. “Mind yer manners,” he growled. “This bull is auld and wily, son. I ken things ye havenae bothered contemplating. All of ’em vicious.” A warning pat, and then he left.

  Broderick closed the parlor doors before sitting on the sofa directly across from Kate, who pretended to smooth her skirts. She wore green velvet, he noticed. Bottle green with brown piping.

  Absently, he rubbed his aching knee and wondered what to say. How did a man persuade the wife he hadn’t wanted—the one who currently occupied every thought in his maddened mind and obsessed every inch of his broken body—to forgive him for being a broken, maddened, obsessive brute? Especially when he might leave her a widow.

  “I quite like your father,” she said in a tremulous voice that reminded him of the first time they’d spoken, when it had taken her a full minute to raise her gaze above his knees. “He’s been remarkably patient. I may even have a solution for the scene with the wolf, though I fear I must permit Sir Wallace the use of a dirk. It seems the sgian-dubh, while a venerable implement for coring fruit, is insufficient for this purpose.”

  “Look at me, Kate.”

  Her throat rippled. “Broderick,” she whispered to her skirts.

  “Please, lass. Look at me.”

  She lifted her gaze—and her misery flayed him open.

  “I shouldnae have handled ye as I did,” he confessed in a rush. “It frightened ye, and for that, I beg yer forgiveness.” He angled closer, resting his elbows on his knees. “But forgiven or no, ye’ll cease fearin’ me now, ye ken?”

  “Broderick.” His name was a plaintive sigh.

  “Should I promise not to touch ye? Is that what ye want?”

  Suddenly, she shot to her feet and clapped both hands over his mouth.

  “Kmmph?”

  “This is not helping, Broderick,” she gritted. “You are not helping.”

  Lightly, he braced his hands on her waist, which was, after all, right there within easy reach. Automatically, his thumbs began stroking her ribs, brushing the undersides of her breasts.

  Her eyes slid closed, and she moaned as though he’d hurt her.

  Or pleasured her.

  What the devil?

  Her hands slowly eased away from his mouth then began stroking his face—everywhere. His brows, his patch, his chin. Even his broken, reshaped nose. Her forehead came down to rest against his as her thumbs traced his lips. “Do you have any idea how much I …” She panted and rocked her head against his. “I do not fear you. And nothing you did was wrong.”

  “Then why havenae ye spoken to me in four bluidy days?”

  She leaned into him until he had no choice but to gather her into his lap. Then, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his throat, clinging like a wee kitten to a skein of yarn. “Hold me,” she murmured.

  He wrapped her up tight, stroking her soft curves and wondering what in blazes was going on.

  “I am afflicted, Broderick. Only a matter of time, now.”

  Alarm sent cold chills down his spine. She was ill? “Afflicted how?”

  She sniffed, snuggled closer, and combed her fingers through his hair. “The mind infection.”

  The what? He searched his memory. Aye, she’d mentioned it once. Wait. Hadn’t she been referring to—

  “Ye’re infatuated?”

  “Thoroughly. One might even say …” She shuddered against him. “In love. It’s dreadful. I cannot bear to speak it aloud.”

  For a moment, he froze. Breathed. Rage started low in his belly and bloomed until it filled him, hotter than a kiln. “Who is it? Rannoch?”

  She straightened away from him with a perplexed scowl. She glanced down to where her bosom brushed his chest. To where she currently perched in his lap, arousing him unmercifully. “Do you see Rannoch here?”

  “Nah,” he breathed. “So, not Rannoch.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, silly man. Not your brother.”

  The rage dissipated as quickly as it had risen. She often had that effect on him.

  “I’ve battled with every weapon I have,” she said, snuggling back into her previous position, except now she laid her cheek against his shoulder and began stroking his ribs. “I fear the war is lost.”

  Air left him in a wordless whoosh. She was in love with … him? Bloody hell.

  “Perhaps you could behave boorishly,” she suggested, fussing with his waistcoat buttons. “Or cover yourself in haggis.”

  His arms tightened around her, his head spinning. There’d only been one eventuality worse than her refusing to forgive him. This was it.

  “Lass.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Ye shouldnae love me.”

  She sighed. “I know. The height of foolishness. I thought I’d been so clever. You aren’t the sort to demand white soup.”

  White soup?

  “We’ve nothing in common. Further, you are much too tall. Too big. Too brooding. Not my sort at all, really.”

  His frown deepened into a scowl.

  “Yet, I can scarcely concentrate. I’ve decorated your drawing room eleven times in my mind, and in every iteration, I include a stag’s head upon the wall.” She clicked her tongue. “Do you know why? Because I dream of boasting about the prize my darling husband hunted with his mighty prowess.”

  “I’m missin’ an eye, Kate. My prowess isnae what it once was.”

  She sighed. “Yes, yes. The conquered weakness will add drama, so I shall include a mention of it to my sisters. But don’t you see? I should be inventing pointless nonsense songs about breakfast! I should be playing the pianoforte and dreaming about seeing Othello performed as an opera. I should not be simpering about my forever man!”

  He knew why he didn’t want her becoming overly attached, but he was having trouble understanding her objection. “Remind me why bletherin’ about yer forever man is a bad thing.”

  When she pulled back again, he could see her fear, sorrowful and real. “I shall lose myself.” She gave a tiny shake of her head. “I shall become someone else before I’ve discovered who I am. Just me. Kate. Could I have been a playwright or a novelist or some brilliant combination thereof? Nobody will ever know. From now on, I shall spend all my waking hours obsessing over your st
ores of liniment and wondering if you prefer turnips or potatoes.”

  “Mrs. MacBean keeps me well supplied with liniment. And I’ll eat either neeps or tatties, but if ye give me a choice, I prefer tatties. There. No need to fash.”

  Her raised brow indicated how unsatisfactory his answer had been.

  He tried again. “Besides, havenae ye spent the past four days workin’ on yer manuscript?”

  “As of this moment, Sir Wallace not only has an eye patch and a bevy of scars, he has acquired an additional foot of height and a penchant for growling.”

  “I dinnae growl.”

  She deepened her voice and mimicked his brogue flawlessly. “Aye, husband, ye do.”

  Amusement tugged his lips. He played with a curl near her cheek. “Ye still have him killin’ a wolf. I’ve never so much as seen one. Mayhap ye’re nae so infected as ye suppose.”

  “Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs.”

  “I think that’s the onions ye’re smellin’. Annie puts them in her gravy.”

  She swatted him playfully, making him laugh. The sound was odd to his own ears, the expanding warmth in his chest a foreign pleasure.

  “Romeo’s next line implies the smoke may clear only after the fire is allowed to burn.” Like a sunrise, her gaze slowly brightened, becoming soft and rapt as it fixed upon him. “Perhaps that is my answer. I must quench my appetite so thoroughly that I exhaust myself and, thus, return to sanity.”

  Until that moment, he’d managed to keep his body’s reactions reasonably tame. But the image of his wee wife “quenching her appetite” for him turned him hard as stone.

  She licked her lips, brown eyes sparking. “Broderick, what would you say if … that is, I should like to … would you be so kind as to tolerate my constant affections? Temporarily. I think.” She shook her head then nodded. “I will be quite avid until my appetite is satisfied, I’m afraid, which may be trying for you, but I don’t expect it to take longer than a year or two. Perhaps three. By then, we’ll likely have at least one babe, provided we don’t have twins, of course, which will divert my attention somewhat and may prove helpful to our mutual cause—”